


Beg to Dream and Differ

by temporalDecay



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Helmsman Kink, M/M, Omorashi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3928180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein a dare is made, a kink is discovered, and Equius Zahhak finds himself stewing in self-loathing and sexual frustration, among other things. You know, business as usual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beg to Dream and Differ

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashkatom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Our Lives On Holiday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/580357) by [ashkatom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom). 



> Continuing my tried and tested tradition of writing porn corollaries to Ash's fics. This one doesn't quite fit into continuity with OLOH, but it is heavily inspired by the events in it, up to chapter 24. You might or might not find yourselves slightly or completely lost, if you haven't caught up with that. Though aside the spoiler that Sollux/Equius is a thing, I've managed to keep it mostly clean. [snrk] But then again, Sollux/Equius is a listed pairing in OLOH's tags, so! I suppose this could stand on its own as well?
> 
> Also a milestone for me, my virgin - snrk - foray into omorashi. It was fun to write!

The first ten minutes had been easy; you are stoic by nature and you figured success in this endeavor would simply mean putting your nature to good use. 

By the first half hour, you’ve decided the entire design needs to change to account for increased comfort because there’s a bit of wiring pushing against your lower back and while you’re fairly sure it is meant to be going into you, if you were actually a Helmsman and not… apparently dating a troll who seems desperate to become one, the placement still feels rather unfortunate. 

By the first hour, you’ve trashed three different redesigns and you can no longer feel your toes. You move them slowly, twitching ever so slightly, but there isn’t much room and if you disturb anything, Captor will know and you will never hear the end of it. So you twitch in several places at once and tell yourself it’ll be over before you know it. 

By the fourth hour, you’re consumed by boredom so profound you had never thought it existed. Your body aches in a quiet, alien way, cramped inside the rig, every inch of your skin personally offended by the weight of inert biowiring touching it. You realize that Captor is no longer in the block, which makes you twitch with newfound annoyance, but you refuse to move from your spot or take advantage of his carelessness. If you were someone else, someone less inclined to follow the rules to the letter, you’d take a moment to stretch yourself before hurrying back into your cocoon of cramped metal fittings and knotted biowires. But you’re you and the very notion of it personally offends you, so you stand there, not quite sitting, not quite hanging, and ignore the constant throbbing of your arms, in tune with your heartbeat. 

By the sixth hour, your throat is parched and you could really use a glass of ice cold milk. Instead you shift your weight from one foot to the other, balancing your weight carefully so as to not pull on the cables holding your arms up above your head. Your hair is stuck down the back of your neck, and this should be familiar to you, but the fact that you can’t just flick it out of the way means the skin itches like mad every time a bead of sweat rolls down along the strands. 

By the eighth hour you’re contemplating which would be the most embarrassing, giving up the challenge or winning at the cost of ruining your pants. Because _dear god_ , you need to pee. And you’re still thirsty as all hell, and everything itches and aches and part of you thinks this just isn’t worthy, not even a little. But then you look up and see Captor at the work table, scribbling on your blueprints or pawing at his husktop, the very picture of carelessness and something inside you throbs with indignation. You can do this. You can withstand a full shift inside the rig. The argument that started this ridiculousness is long lost to you; all you care about is proving Captor wrong. To show him you can take this. You swallow hard, feeling sweat-drenched hair plastered against your throat, and remind yourself two hours is not nearly as long as it seems. 

By the ninth hour your bladder is pulsing in time with your heartbeat, performing a symphony of uncomfortable agony subdivided in sections of your body you rarely if ever acknowledge, much less feel so keenly aware of all the time. You’ve long lost feeling on your arms, allowing the wires and the metal supports to hold them in place. Your clothes are drenched and sticking to your skin with moisture you’d welcome on your mouth. Captor has left the worktable at last, huddled on the other side of the block in a chair that has seen better days since this exercise in madness began. You can’t see what he’s doing, you can’t really hear him over the sound of static bouncing between your ears. But he’s left the timer in your line of vision and the minutes remaining of your punishment – this feels like punishment now, for a crime you’re not quite sure you could define, if asked – taunting you in bright red numbers. Your body feels bloated and empty all at once, and a critical, cynical part of your mind recognizes it as signs of dehydration and anxiety. The rig is too claustrophobic, too small to fit around you, and you think you can feel sores opening where it chafes against your skin, even though you know that is patently ridiculous. You swallow hard, even if it makes your throat feel like it’s falling apart, and count the seconds between each throb of your bladder. 

Fifteen minutes before the twelve hours are done, Captor saunters over back to where you are. There really isn’t another word for the smug tilt of his body as he noisily drags a chair in front of you and sits back with a smirk. 

“I didn’t think you’d last this long,” he says, almost amicably, but you don’t quite believe it as you glare in lieu of words. 

Your body is a knot of tension awkwardly put together, even the slightest shift will cause it to collapse. Your bladder burns white hot in your gut, and you’re not sure how you’ll walk out of this with your dignity intact, but you figure you’ll find out when the time is up. 

“I’m impressed, Zahhak,” Captor adds, emphasis making your attention snap back to him so sharply it could nearly be heard. “Really impressed, I think we ought to spice up the last stretch, don’t you?” 

You refuse to reply, for fear of what your voice might sound like. Your lips are stuck together now, between dried spit and dried sweat, and you feel you will implode if you make an effort to string together enough words to let him know exactly how you feel about him at this moment. 

“I mean, it’s kinda hot, you stuck in there, doing the whole glower and fucking gloom thing,” Captor goes on, hooking a leg on the armrest of the chair and propping himself back obscenely. Deep, deep down in the empty recesses of your mind, you hear yourself utter a singularly uncouth _fuck_ at the display. You realize with horror that you said that out loud, when Captor unceremoniously shoves a hand into his pants, grin sadistically gleeful. “I don’t see why not. I’d fuck you right where you are but that might be cheating and you’re doing _so well_.” His eyes are half-lidded and all you can see is the shape of his hand inside his pants, moving with near hypnotic rhythm. “Then again,” he says, voice breathy either because of what he’s doing or solely for the benefit of tormenting you, “with the redesign, harvesting slurry is no longer a concern, is it?” 

You whimper very, very quietly and resign yourself to watch like a man sentenced to death. There’s a very meanspirited side to Sollux Captor, when he’s in a teasing mood. You’ve only recently begun to get acquainted to it and it’s both endearing and terrifying in turns. The rational part of your mind, the one that goes suspiciously quiet whenever your thoughts chase themselves into knots around and about him, whispers almost inaudibly that you should probably step out and put an end to the indignity. Your eyes travel from the timer painstakingly counting the seconds to the way Captor is rolling his hips against his fingers, dampness slowly but surely spreading between his legs. Your body screams at you, stimuli and desperation refined into an intoxicating mixture that you’re horrified to realize you will be craving to feel again, once this… experiment is over. You don’t really remember when your bulge unsheathed, but it’s twisting painfully against your underwear, the delicate membranes rubbing ruthlessly against the seams. Your entire body pulses with confused desires, and the only thing you can be certain of is that you _want_. Something. Everything. Anything. 

“So,” Captor asks, affecting his voice with a forced casual tone you know better by now than to believe at all. His pants are ruined and so is the chair. His fingers make a loud, squelching sound that drills itself further into the confused mess between your legs. “On a scale from hot as fuck to I will murder you, where does leaving a puddle of slurry on the workshop floor fall?” 

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” you roar, because screaming _oh god, please_ seems almost like a physical impossibility. 

You hate yourself more than you hate him – and in truth, you do not hate him at all, not even now – when he sprints out of the chair, half floating, half scrambling towards the door. Your whole body twitches in despair, but your eyes fall on the timer. Forty five seconds left. You suck compulsively on the fleshy bit of your lower lip, because those are the longest forty five seconds of your life. 

  


* * *

  


It took you another ten minutes to unwrap yourself from the rig, and by then the only thought consuming your pan was to find the nearest ablution chamber before the pulse of pain and need in your gut burst into something _worse_. The door barely slams shut when you’re tearing off your clothes, and the first hints of blessed release for your bladder bring about the single most earthshattering orgasm you’ve had in your life. Not that you’ve truly had much to compare it with, but you end up sitting in the load gaper, face in your hands, because you’ve just confirmed the true depths of your depravity and you need a moment to collect yourself. 

It takes you an hour to clean yourself, scrubbing out as much sweat and desperation as you can. It feels like it’ll never be enough. When you finally make it back to the workshop, Captor isn’t there. He’s nowhere to be found, in fact, around your hive. 

You take out your frustration drawing blueprint after blueprint for new improvements to the rig. Your original concern was to make it detachable somehow. Now you know, first hand, that to consider that a victory was puerile at best. So you work and work and work, hands only shaking sometimes, when you find yourself staring at the gnarled knot of biowires and metal and something deep inside you throbs with wanting that makes you sweat and seriously consider the cathartic properties of a good swearing fit. 

  


* * *

  


“I’m sorry,” Captor blurts out, as he stumbles back into the workshop. You barely catch a glimpse of Aradia rolling her eyes and stomping away without looking back. Captor commands your attention once more, fidgeting nervously with the hem of his shirt. “I’m sorry, okay. I was joking. It was a shitty prank and it got out of hand, and I’m sorry I made you mad.” 

It takes a moment, for the cogs to align, since the novelty of him apologizing robbed you of most of your functional mental faculties. And then when everything is in place and you take a good look at the big picture, you find yourself cringing at it. You wish you hadn’t, if only because it makes him flinch in turn. 

“I was not mad,” you say, hoarse, hand shaking because he’s squinting at you the same way he squints at your blueprints, doubtful and unwilling to take them at face value until he’s figured out exactly how they work. “I was not,” you insist, swallowing hard. “I was…” You make vague gestures with your hands, trying to find a way to explain without having to use any words at all. “I was somewhat overwhelmed.” To put it very, very lightly. “And very interested in a follow up of your… show of interest.” An odd thing happens, then. An odd thing that makes your entire being quiver with that strange, awkward pity you’ve been drowning in since god knows when: Sollux Captor actually blushes somewhat. You swallow hard yet again, your throat parched as sweat beads across your forehead. “I assumed you wouldn’t want to engage in such… activities, until I had made myself presentable. I apologize if I took too long.” 

Captor laughs, a high pitched, off-key noise that you find pleasant and even comforting, despite the fact everything you know says it should be otherwise. He licks his lips, and your eyes find it hard to stop staring. 

“Holy _shit_ , Zahhak,” he says, folding his arms defensively in front of him, “I wasn’t kidding when I said I was willing to fuck you in there.” You catch the whimper in your throat, and then release it anyway, if only because you think he’ll enjoy it. He does. His smile widens somewhat as his posture slowly unfolds into something far less meek. You’re surprised to realize you never want to see him looking meek ever again. It doesn’t suit him, to hell what the hemospectrum has to say. However, he barrels through your quiet realization with a grin that taunts you to return it. “You don’t have to get pretty for me, I already think you’re damn fine the way you are.” 

And now it’s your turn to feel color bloom hotly on your cheeks, as you tilt your head forward, reflexively hiding your face behind your hair. 

“I found the experience enlightening nonetheless,” you say, voice off-pitch as you turn back to your workbench. “I have made several improve— _oh_.” 

You’ve never felt the rain of sparks of his powers on your skin. Not like this. Every inch of your body sings awake, pulsing after the cascade of psionics rushing down your being, until you feel your entire world narrow down to that sensation. You sway in place, shivering as he floats up and lays himself on your back, mouth tauntingly close to your ear. 

“You owe me a fuck, Zahhak,” he says, a cackle folded into the sound of his voice, “you’re sure as hell not getting me to work before you pay up.” 

It’s a conscious effort, this time, to let the whimper pass through your throat undisturbed, as you bow your head forward and feel his laughter pressed against your back. 

“That,” you say, because you’re you, no one else _but_ you, “would be very much acceptable.” 

  


* * *

  


He’s an exquisite sheath of wet warmth around your bulge, and your entire body shivers with content as you explore the contours of his insides, inch by inch. You started on the workbench – fulfilling many unspoken daydreams you refuse to acknowledge at this point – and now you’re sitting on his chair – his, his, _his_ , everything he touches is his, by now, you know it to be true even if you cannot bring yourself to speak the words – invading his workspace with memories of debauchery you refuse to examine very closely. You have more important things to worry about. 

Like the strangled cry he makes, when you slide barely half an inch down the chair, his entire body seizing around you and leaving you shaking as you stop entirely. 

“Doesn’t hurt,” Captor gasps, one leg hooked on the armchair – and your arm – the other hanging listlessly off your thigh. He looks frail and small like this, sprawled on you as you slowly work yourself in, but his expression is not… pained. “Fuck, it should,” he laughs, reaching a hand to hold yours and shove it up against his gut, distended obscenely around your girth, and then shoving it further down to tangle your fingers along the writhing of his bulges. “But it doesn’t. You feel amazing.” 

You bury your face into his neck, folding yourself around him to the best of your ability, and whimper very, very quietly as you go about driving him as close to desperation as you can. It’s pleasant – of course it is, it’s sex, it’s by necessity pleasant and addictive on its own – but not quite as damning as the release you achieved once you escaped the rig. 

“When it’s all over,” you say, licking your lips as his voice climbs up in volume and pitch, “when it’s all over, you’ll order me again.” 

“I’ll order you right fucking now, if you wa— _ah_!” 

He drags you along down the spiral of pleasure, much like he’s dragged you along everything else in your life at this point. It’s ridiculous and awkward and painful, how much you feel for him. When the high of pheromones calms down into a pleasant pulse of warmth between your legs, you find yourself holding him, careful not to crush him. There are a million things that need to be said, right now. A million more that should be addressed. 

Instead you sit there, exhausted and sated, and content yourself just listening to him breathe. 

“This is probably a really fucking bad time to mention we have maybe half an hour before the entirety of the goddamn Coup Club walks in through the door, huh?” 

Hopelessly, there’s nothing left for you but to you choke on a hysterical laugh. Whatever comes next, you suppose you can do nothing else but deal with it, one moment at the time. 


End file.
